These Things
by She's So High
Summary: Sometimes these things happen. Granted, no one expected Death Eaters to attack Harry at Hogwarts and Draco definitely didn't expect to save him. But . . . these things do happen.
1. Chapter One

These Things  
By: Lady DeathAngel  
Disclaimer: not mine, not profiting, 'nuff said.  
Warnings: language, eventual slash, possibly violence  
A/N: no idea where this came from. It's really just an excuse to write H/D with a slightly Christmas theme. It probably won't be much longer. It really can't afford to be as I've got fqf fics to write on top of a Furuba Yuki/Kyou fic I've wanted to work on and a shamelessly lemony Zack/Freddy School of Rock slash fic I want to write. Anyway, please read, enjoy, and review.

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This, Draco Malfoy decided as he dragged Harry Potter's prone body behind him through labyrinthine dungeons, was a bloody perfect way to spend Christmas Eve. Yes, it was just how he'd imagined it: him, saving the sodding Boy-Who-Lived while his father and Merlin knew who else were willing to kill anyone in their way to make sure he didn't get away.

"I've gone fucking _soft_ if I'm actually doing what I think I'm doing," he muttered to himself.

Because, really, it was laughable. Here he was, the bane of Potter's existence, the antagonist in the great tragedy that was the boy's life, or at least, one of the antagonists (he figured that Voldemort probably played a bigger role than he did, what with the many murder attempts and sending his subordinates after him whenever he got the chance) playing hero to said Potter. He doubted that anyone would believe him if he said he'd spent the last fifteen minutes throwing his bloody back out trying to get the stupid boy as far away from Death Eaters as possible. He could barely believe it himself.

And all he could think as he made his way over dank stones and through dimly lit passageways was that his father had warned him.

Generally it was forbidden for prisoners of Azkaban to strike up a correspondence with anyone and other than the occasional visit from approved individuals, they weren't allowed outside contact with anyone. But the Dementors weren't around anymore to drive their prisoners mad and the only wizards working at Azkaban now were of questionable allegiance anyway. With the world crashing down around the Ministry's ears it was easy to bribe caretakers into delivering letters because there wasn't anyone around to catch them at it.

That was how Draco and his mother had kept contact with his father. They would each write a letter, not too long but enough to summarize whatever had happened since they'd last contacted him, and then his mother would send it off with a sizeable amount of money attached. For the most part their letters had been of the, 'The Ministry's sniffing around, Aurors are all over the place, when are you coming home and fixing this?' variety. His father's replies were along the 'It isn't time, yet' variety. All in all, both Draco and his mother were frustrated because they were left alone to handle the repercussions of the last summer.

His mother, as the head of Malfoy Manor in his father's absence, had been subjected to searches at the Manor. She'd been put under surveillance, her good name held little to no stock any longer, and there were always Ministry officials about threatening to freeze their bank accounts or to confiscate their property or any other number of things if she didn't tell them all she knew about You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters. She wrote Draco at least once a week faking bravado but he knew it had to be hard on her.

And then, of course, was Hogwarts. Potter was a bleeding hero anymore with everyone. They all wanted to touch his robes like he was fucking Merlin or Jesus or something. Younger students couldn't stop talking about him, older students all tripped over themselves when he spoke, the professors let him off without finishing assignments or for showing up to class late, and every morning there were dozens of owls pouring in to ask him to save their crops or to resurrect their familiars. Gryffindor house on a whole was suddenly the most popular house in the castle.

Hufflepuffs walked past the staircase to the tower three times before sunset on Thursdays because Finnigan was spreading the rumor that they'd be blessed by Godric himself if they did. Ravenclaws were pissing themselves to be in classes with Granger and to go to Hogsmeade with Thomas and Weasley and Finnigan and Longbottom because then maybe they'd get a good word in with Potter. The younger students idolized Colin Creevy because he had _pictures_ of his house-mates and everyone treated McGonnagal with a new sort of reverence. Gryffindor was the house of heros and legends and gods, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were just details and Slytherin . . . Slytherin was suffering.

On a level, Draco had been expecting it, but not to the extent of the reality of it. He'd gone back to school riding in a horseless carriage with Pansy and Blaise and Millicent. Vince and Greg weren't coming back. He'd gotten that owl earlier in the summer. Apparently there had been death threats and evictions and rumor had it that Greg's mum had committed suicide in early July. It was all a huge mess and he'd only gotten a note from each of them to tell him they were all right but wouldn't be around.

When they'd arrived at the castle and climbed out of their carriage they were greeted by stares and whispers. At first Draco was certain it was his imagination but it didn't stop in the Great Hall and in the brightly lit room it was easier to notice they were being glared daggers at and people were pointing fingers. Pansy, who was sitting to his left, let out a growl when a Ravenclaw said in a rather loud voice, "See that one there? The pug-nosed one. Yeah, her. Think her parents are in with You-Know-Who? Bet they are. Bet all their parents are."

"Why don't you mind your own bloody business?" she demanded.

The Ravenclaw just sneered at her and turned back to his friends, this time muttering about Draco's father, the one no one could seem to get enough of talking about. It was like that all the time. He'd turn around and some stupid prick was prattling on about how Draco's father was an evil slaughterer of Muggles and should be hanged or burned at a stake. Pansy had gotten into so many fights she stopped going to Madame Pomfrey out of embarrassment, instead leaving it to Blaise and Millicent to fix her up. The younger students had it even worse.

They couldn't even defend themselves, the weak chits. They were the ones who got laughed at in classes for answering questions; they were the ones that got pushed down stairs and threatened; they were the ones people didn't bother lowering their voices around.

The professors had noticed. There was no way they hadn't. The same went for Head Boy and Head Girl, some Hufflepuff and a Ravenclaw bitch who didn't seem inclined to do anything but laugh right along with her friends when they charmed a first year's hair a grotesque green. And the Prefects . . . well, there was no getting through to them. The worst part about that was Weasley and Granger were the most understanding. They thought it was a bit sickening what the rest of the students were doing and had joined up what the Weasel called 'Malfoy's Cause'.

But there weren't enough people taking a stand to make a difference. Snape did what he could, and Granger and Weasley made an effort. McGonnagal was as fair as always and none of the other teachers were contributing, they just weren't putting a stop to it.

So it was up to the sixth and seventh years to console the younger students and to heal their scrapes when they were convinced if they went to Madam Pomfrey they'd be hurt even worse the next day. And it was a horrid, horrid experience. Draco realized, then, what it meant to be bitter, what it meant to truly hate and he spent less time concerned about Potter being famous (because, honestly, the prat looked miserable most of the time anyway) and more time angry.

He was angry at Dumbledore for having no control over anything, he was angry at You-Know-Who for his stupidity, and he was angry at his father for deciding he'd rather be at the side of a deranged Dark Lord than helping his son and his wife. He thought it was so selfish of the world to be waging its war and painting everyone black or white and leaving the ones who had no choice in the matter to fend for themselves.

It wasn't easy for him to accept. He'd grown up with his father telling him all he had to do was listen to him and he'd be safe. He'd been told that his pure blood would ensure he'd live long enough to see a world reemerge that wasn't filled with Mudbloods and Muggle-lovers. He'd never liked You-Know-Who or his ideals. He'd done research on him and for one thing he was a Half-blood which made him a hypocrite. For another his methods were a lot like a crazy Muggle named Hitler's and he couldn't be much if he was taking after barbaric Muggles and was constantly being bested by a boy who was either a baby or a scrawny teenager at the time.

Still, he trusted his father just like many pure-bloods trusted You-Know-Who's plans and look where it had gotten them. Being ostracized for being exactly what they were supposed to be safe because of. Pure-bloods.

And as all this was happening and he was having an epiphany that he really didn't want, a letter came from his father. It told him that it was time now. That they'd all been biding their time but that they were being called now and there was a plan.

_I know_, it had read, _that your mother insisted you stay at Hogwarts for the holidays. She had her reasons. Fool reasons if you ask me, but as you're there I must warn you to stay on your guard and _never_ go off alone. Avoid Harry Potter at all costs and don't breathe a word of this to anyone._

Which was a shitty warning in retrospect, Draco thought as he pulled Potter into an empty, unlit corridor hidden behind a small statue of someone or something, not that he cared to examine the plaque or anything. 'Stay on your guard'. Right. It had become a widely acknowledged fact that no matter how 'on his guard' Draco was, he was always getting hit square between the shoulder blades by something and this was no different.

"You'd better wake up soon, Potter," he muttered. "Because I'm not dragging your scrawny arse another meter."

And he sat and he waited.


	2. Chapter Two

These Things  
By: Lady DeathAngel  
Disclaimer: not mine, not profiting, 'nuff said  
Warnings: language  
A/N: okay, so here's part two. I'm having trouble deciding where to steer the boys from here without becoming even more of a cliche than I already am, so the next part may be a while. Also, any Furuba fans out there willing to help me with my new fic? I'm looking for a good beta reader who'll help me sort out my ideas as well as correct my bad grammar. Just thought I'd ask. :) Anyway, thanks for the great feedback for this story so far and please continue to read, enjoy, and review!

Harry liked to think that there came a time in every boy's life when he just wanted to give up. When he'd been fucked over one too many times and he was just ready to lay down and die. But then he remembered how _extraordinary_ he was, how much different from every other boy on the planet, and he realized that it was probably just him.

This was definitely one of those times when he just wanted to be dead or perhaps never to have existed at all. He was slowly coming back to consciousness, his scar searing, his head aching, his whole body sore . . . and while he didn't know what the hell had happened this time, he was really pissed off about it. He lay in the moments between black and full lucidity trying to remember what was going on.

He'd been having an okay time before. It had been one of the nicest holidays he'd ever had, actually. He felt a bit selfish about it. After all, people were gradually getting more and more paranoid, waiting for Voldemort to strike, setting up underground houses in remote villages, taking impromptu trips to countries like America and Canada and Australia just waiting for the madman to come down upon Britain in a carriage of flames and kill everyone in sight. He really shouldn't have been enjoying their fear so much, but if it meant all of his friends staying behind over Christmas than so be it.

They'd been having dinner in the Great Hall, all the tables still separate since there was no real need to join them together. Seamus had been regaling them all with exaggerated tales about a nymph and a woodsmen that made the boys howl with laughter and the girls squeak with indignation when some Ravenclaw had come over to him. He'd thought, in the vague way of maudlin thoughts, that he might have considered her pretty a few months before. But now he had a disinclination toward Ravenclaws in general and girls in particular, especially after the mess with Cho and then Cho's friend turning out to be a traitor, though Luna was okay and if Ron didn't stake his claim, Hermione was very openly considering a seventh year boy who was, in her words, 'terribly clever and never mind the acne because it's what's in his head that counts'.

Dean and Seamus had sniggered, both at the double entendre and at the suddenly very red color of Ron's face.

The girl had smiled in a sort of apologetic way and said that one of the professors wanted him in the dungeons. He'd looked up at the faculty table to see several vacant spaces, Trelawny as well as Snape and their new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Aurora Simms. He figured that it was just like Snape to ask him to the dungeons on Christmas Eve and grumbled something to her. She went away with another of those apologetic smiles (the kind of smile he really didn't like, actually. It usually never meant anything good for him. In fact, it never meant anything good) and he stood up to go see what it was that Snape wanted.

"We'll come with you," Hermione said and Ron nodded.

But they'd been having a good time and so Harry said he'd be fine on his own. They promised that if he wasn't back in ten minutes they'd go rescue him, and he'd laughed and nodded.

He'd made his lonely way down to the dungeons, loathing the cold because he hadn't worn a sweater. Instead he was only wearing a thin white t-shirt, one that had probably belonged to Dudley when he was about ten and had only fit him when Hermione attacked his wardrobe with a handy spell to make his clothes fit him properly, instead of hang off his body. His jeans kept his legs warm, at least, but his arms were frozen.

From there he remembered turning a corner, the one leading to Snape's office, and then getting the distinct impression that he wasn't alone. He'd whirled around and there had been a handful of Death Eaters standing several feet away and judging by the sudden pain in his scar, Voldemort was near as well. He didn't know what they had planned but a drawling voice that he'd recognized all too well had put a stop to it.

"There are others down here!" Lucius Malfoy had yelled.

And there had been a woman shrieking and two younger Slytherins along with Draco Malfoy. After that it was very fuzzy. There was a crash, a falling ceiling, a big pile of rubble that separated him and Malfoy from the Death Eaters and the other two students, and then he'd blacked out and woken up here. No. That wasn't right. He must have hit his head on something. Which was just bloody perfect.

"Why does this always happen to me?" Harry mumbled, sitting up slowly and wincing.

"Hell if I know," a voice drawled off to his left. "But it seems that today is my unlucky day. Someone always gets caught in the crossfire between you and You-Know-Who and for some reason that someone is me this time."

"Fuck . . ." he muttered, feeling his head with ginger fingers and sighing when they came away wet and sticky. "We are so fucked."

"Up the arse and with no lube handy," Malfoy added.

Harry rolled his eyes.

"You're so helpful."

"Actually," the prat said cheerfully, and suddenly he was practically sitting in Harry's lap. Scratch that, he _was_ in Harry's lap. "I am. I," he lit his wand and gestured for Harry to hold it up while he looked at his head. "Saved your arse by dragging you as far as I could, rescued your bloody stupid glasses, and am now checking to make sure your brains aren't falling out."

"I'm pretty sure," the dark-haired boy said. "I could have done that myself."

"What? Save your own arse? Because if I remember correctly, you tripped, fell, and knocked yourself out."

"No, you idiot. The latter."

Malfoy shrugged.

"Sure, but I figured that maybe if I'm really nice to you, I won't be one of your unfortunate casualties."

Harry grunted as he sifted his fingers through his hair and grazed the cut.

"I'm pretty sure that you're better off praying or sacrificing a virgin or something."

"Well, I've never prayed before in my life and there aren't any virgins handy. Expendable ones anyway. Give me my wand."

Harry handed it over and Malfoy murmured a charm. He felt the skin of his scalp sealing itself and sighed in relief. Now he only had a headache and a badly twinging scar to deal with.

"Thanks," he said.

Malfoy shrugged and sat back on his heels.

"I'm probably better at healing charms than you are. Not that I'm not better at most things than you are anyway."

"Oh, you're just too modest."

"Yes, I know. Now take your ugly glasses, put them on, and let's get the fuck out of here, shall we?"

Harry obliged, taking the glasses that Malfoy handed him and then standing slowly.

"Is there a way out of here?" he asked.

"I don't honestly know," the blonde replied. "There are several emergency exits in the dungeons, but there are also a few dead ends. Hopefully this corridor isn't one of those."

They started off, Harry pulling his wand from his back pocket and muttering _lumos_.

"You have emergency exits?"

"Don't you?"

"Not that I've ever heard of."

Malfoy scoffed.

"That is just so typical. You all hate Salazar Slytherin for having such lofty ideas, but he's the only one who thought that it might be prudent to give his students an escape route, just in case."

"There's a way out of Gryffindor Tower," Harry said. "But you wouldn't survive jumping out of the window so I don't think it counts."

The look Malfoy shot him said rather loudly that it most definitely didn't count. As they walked Harry couldn't seem to stop frowning and finally he asked the question that was slowly making his head throb more and more sharply.

"Why'd you save me?"

Malfoy glanced at him and then looked away.

"Because," he said in a soft voice. "I'm madly in love with you."

"Malfoy . . ."

"I couldn't stand to see you hurt. I'd rather risk my life . . ."

"Malfoy . . ."

"Than watch them kill you."

There was a moment of silence. A rather long moment of silence in which Harry thought in the vague way of homicidal thoughts that maybe he could blame it on Voldemort if he killed Malfoy. But then, he'd have to do it with his bare hands and that wasn't exactly the Dark Lord's way of dealing with annoying prats, so it probably wouldn't work.

"Don't you believe me?" Malfoy asked.

"Actually, yes. And I love you too. All the thoughts I had of killing you, all the insults, all the fights . . . it was a lie."

Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"Oh whatever, Potter. You're shit at lying, did you know?"

"So that's why I can never get away with anything."

"No, that's just because you're stupid."

Harry snorted.

"So why'd you do it really?"

Malfoy shrugged.

"No reason, really. I could just as easily have stayed there, standing guard over you until they could get through. Then I could have turned you over and had my revenge and felt all nice and fuzzy, much unlike the feeling of irritation that your presence is currently inspiring in me."

"So why didn't you?"

The blonde looked at him with a sideways smile.

"How about this? When I figure it out, I'll tell you."

Harry raked his hands through his hair, clumps of it still sticking together with blood, and shrugged.

"Fine. But if you tell me you love me I'll hex you."

"Please. If I ever fall in love with you I'll hex myself."


	3. Chapter Three

These Things  
By: Lady DeathAngel  
Disclaimer: not mine, not profiting, 'nuff said  
Warnings: bit o' language, pre-slash  
A/N: Yes! I've finally written chapter three. Yay for me! Anyway, I'm so busy . . . it's stressful and I'm trying so hard not to think about it. I'd rather not have to kill myself because I've got so much to do and not nearly enough time. .; I actually like how this turned out and am looking forward to the next two or three chapters. I'm still not positively sure where I'm going with this though. While I figure that out, though, please read, enjoy, and review. Hopefully the next chapter will be up soon. If things go well, by the end of the weekend.

Draco couldn't say he knew the dungeons like the back of his hand. He was, however extremely comfortable with them. Unlike Pansy and Blaise who often got lost if they wandered off, he could always find his way back to the Slytherin Common Room or to the Great Hall, no matter how far into the castle he'd wandered. Unfortunately, everything had happened too fast for him to get a proper grip on where in the dungeons he and Potter currently were. He recognized a few classrooms and was pretty sure that they were headed toward an exit that would open up somewhere near Hagrid's hut, but he wasn't positive and the way his luck was currently going he wouldn't be surprised if they'd gone full-circle and he inadvertantly delivered them both to You-Know-Who and all his followers.

"You sure you know where we're going?" Potter panted from somewhere behind him.

"I never said I knew where we were going," Draco said with an eyeroll. "I only said I hope that this isn't a dead-end corridor."

"Oh."

Draco frowned and slowed his step a little. He'd rather expected some kind of retort from the other boy. Something scathing or something stupid (with Potter you never knew when you'd get wit and when you'd get some random, half-arsed insult directed at his hair or something). Instead he'd gotten 'oh'. And not just 'oh'. He'd gotten a soft, acquiescent, completely without rancor 'oh'.

"Oi, Potter, are you feeling okay?" Draco asked because, honestly, the boy couldn't be feeling himself.

"Not really, no," was the honest answer.

The blonde stopped and turned to see Potter was much farther back then he'd originally thought. One hand was clutching his stomach, the other his forehead, and he looked like he could pass out again at any moment. Which was not acceptable. There was no way in the seven hells that Draco was carrying his dead-weight arse again. Not twice in a night and hopefully not ever.

"Well, what is it?" he asked, walking toward him. "Because if you faint again you're on your own."

"My scar," Potter breathed. "It . . . Voldemort's . . ." He stopped in the middle of a sentence he'd probably never planned on finishing anyway and took two very shallow, wheezing breaths.

Draco had seen more than his fair share of panic attacks. Back when it was all about OWLs, Pansy and Millicent had each had at least one a week, not to mention Vincent and Greg who were convinced that they were going to fail and be kicked out of the school for being stupid and moronic. Only Blaise, Theodore, and Draco had kept it together in public, though they confided one night that they'd each had a few moments of anxiety when they were alone and particularly stressed out. Potter had all the symptoms; he looked dizzy, the light of Draco's wand showed that he was pale and covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and he couldn't breathe properly.

There were only a few things to do when one had a panic attack, or so Draco had learned. You could always let them sit it out and hope they didn't hyperventilate, pass out, throw up, or die on you. You could be calm and patient and loving (when he'd been younger and prone to panic attacks, his mother and father had used that method). Or, you could slap the person and hope that it knocked them out of it. He was leaning toward the latter because he wasn't going to just sit around and wait for You-Know-Who to find them and he definitely wasn't going to whisper sweet nothings until the prat calmed the fuck down. But then Potter had fallen to his knees and started whispering, almost inaudibly, "Not again, not again, _please_." And then a bit more forcefully, "Stop _thinking_ about it. Stop _thinking_."

Occlumency, Draco realized. Snape had taught him a little when he was younger. He said that someday it might be the difference between life and death, whether or not he learned to master it. He'd never been too good at it. His attention span had been too short when he was little, and even though he practiced faithfully, there was always too much to think about to properly empty his mind. Mostly it was Potter or Quidditch or his mother or his father or his classes. It was just too much of a stretch to be able to stop thinking period. The question now, was not, however, why the hell had Draco never learned it properly, but rather, why the hell was Harry trying it? And who'd taught him?

There were only a few Wizards out there who were accomplished at Occlumency. As far as Draco knew, Snape, Dumbledore, and You-Know-Who were three of the best. Everyone else could only hope to be as good at it.

Potter was still kneeling on the cold, dungeon floor, head bowed and both hands now clutching his forehead. He kept on taking in deep breaths through clenched teeth and then letting them out on a hiss. It was almost as funny as it was frightening, but Draco decided it wouldn't be a good time to laugh. Instead he knelt next to him and put his hands on the side of Potter's head.

"Hey, calm down, all right? It'll never work if you keep on like this."

"You try having Voldemort in your head, showing you your best friends dead and rotting, and then you calm down."

Okay, point taken.

"Look, I'm only trying to help. This corridor'll lead us out of the castle." _I hope_, he added silently. "But we have to hurry. It'll help if you calm down and empty your mind of all thought. Don't worry about anyone else. They're safe." _I hope_, he added again. If only because he couldn't stand the thought of what would happen should news get out that Death Eaters _and_ You-Know-  
Who had invaded Hogwarts and killed a bunch of kids. No more Hogwarts, probably. No more safe-haven. Never a good thing.

Draco kept his hands where they were, noted that Potter's knuckles were white and his nails were close to breaking the skin of his forehead. He was still taking in shallow breaths. Definitely not calming down at all. The blonde sighed and leaned down.

"Take deep breaths, okay?" he ordered. "Breathe with me."

He took in easy, measured breaths of air and let them out slowly, willing Potter to follow his example. Slowly he massaged the other boy's temples, felt him start to relax bit by bit. A memory flashed in Draco's mind of Snape doing this for him when he was a boy. He could still remember it very clearly.

He'd been seven and well on his way to learning everything his tutors had hoped he would. His parents were proud and his father promised him special lessons with Severus Snape. Draco remembered how much he'd like Snape back then. He'd painted an imposing figure at all times, even though he was thin and a bit odd looking. He was always so dark compared to his father and mother and looked strangely out of place in Malfoy Manor, but he felt safe somehow. Because Lucius Malfoy trusted him like he didn't trust anyone else. So Draco trusted him, loved him even, without knowing him.

They'd been in his father's study one day, his parents off to the side looking on anxiously while Snape had looked down at him with dark eyes and told him how important it was that he mastered this skill. Then he'd told Draco to empty his mind and muttered _Legilimens_ and it was all fuzzy, the memories that had been dredged up. But it wasn't fuzzy how kind Snape had been and how he'd taught him to focus.

It had been years since Draco had needed anyone to help him, but it was apparent that Potter had never even known this method existed; it was a simple focus, using someone else's body to help calm your own. The most base of natural spells and the most innate method of natural healing. And the wonderful thing was, you didn't even have to like the person.

A few moments later Potter was calm enough to drop his hands from his forehead.

"Okay," he breathed. "I'm fine now."

"Then let's go," Draco said, standing up and pulling Potter behind him. "It shouldn't be that much further."

The dark-haired boy nodded, still looking a bit peaky, eyes weary behind his glasses. They made their way through the dungeons, Draco slowing his pace slightly to make sure that Potter kept up. They turned left, right, right, went straight and then they were there. The corridor stopped abruptly and Draco realized he'd never been here before. And it looked like his luck wasn't changing. There was nothing but a wall and an elaborate carving of an elegant serpent.

The blonde was just about ready to give up when he and Potter looked at each other at the same moment.

"D'you think-"

"Could you -"

They smirked and nodded.

"Go for it."

"All right then."

Potter stared intently at the serpent and then he was speaking in a language that Draco desperately wanted to understand. But what sounded like nothing but a series of hisses that rolled off of Potter's tongue in an obscenely sensual manner must have made sense to the carving because the serpent flicked it's tongue three times and then the wall was shifting just enough to allow them through. Potter muttered something else and then he grabbed Draco's wrist and tugged him forward.

"Come on, the sooner we get out of here the better. I think Voldemort's close."

Draco didn't really know what to say to that, and anything he might have come up with got caught in his throat at the sight of the cloaked man standing before them, frowning and looking fit to kill. The wall closed with a resounding thud and there was no escape. And just when he thought his run of bad luck was gone . . .


	4. Chapter Four

These Things  
By: Lady DeathAngel  
Disclaimer: not mine, not profiting, 'nuff said  
Warnings: language  
A/N: Congratulations Tenshi-Chikyuu! 'Tis, indeed, who you hoped it was. I had fun writing this chapter. In fact, I'm having fun writing Draco period. It's going to be good times delving into his psyche, but it's also going to be nice to develop Harry a bit more in the coming chapters. This one was easy to get out quickly because I'd been planning this chapter (or a variation on it) since I started the fic. I'm not sure what'll happen in the next. I've got a vague idea so I'll start it as soon as possible. In the meantime, thanks sooo much for the feedback and please continue to read, enjoy, and review.

Draco was seriously starting to doubt Potter's sanity. Because the prat didn't even have the grace to look scared. No, he looked fucking relieved. He didn't have the right to be relieved. Didn't he know he was facing a Death Eater? Didn't he know that the man scowling down at them was probably jumping up and down inside his greasy body at the knowledge that _he_ had been the one to capture Harry Potter and _he_ would be the one to hand deliver him to the Dark Lord? Didn't he know he was _thisclose_ to dying?!

Apparently not because Potter was gazing at Severus Snape like he was Father Christmas and had just told him he was at the top of the 'nice' list.

"Potter, Malfoy . . . follow me and be quick about it," Snape ordered, turning and making his way toward the end of the tunnel that would lead them, finally, out of Hogwarts.

Potter nodded and moved to follow him. What kind of stupid . . .

"What do you think you're doing?" Draco hissed, grabbing Potter by the wrist.

"Ouch!" the other boy said with a disdainful glare.

"I'm serious! Don't you know what Snape _is_?"

Potter wrenched his arm away and walked backwards after their professor.

"Yes. But apparently you don't."

"What," Draco started, following him. "Are you talking about? That man's a Death Eater. Like my father. Hell, they had tea together all the time when I was little. Got matching Dark Marks and everything. He'll _kill_ you, and while I don't want to do it, I'll have to save your arse again and then _I'll_ be dead and this is just not my fucking night."

"Quiet!" Snape barked.

Potter rolled his eyes.

"He's not a Death Eater," he said in a soft tone. "I mean . . . he is but he's not really. He's the spy."

He didn't need to elaborate. Draco almost stopped cold in his steps but figured that would be even more counter-productive than everything else he'd done in the last three minutes. He settled for gaping at Potter who simply raised his eyebrows and then turned on one heel. Of course Draco knew about the spy. Everyone who was close enough to You-Know-Who's supporters knew about him, but no one knew who it was. It was rumored that the Dark Lord did and had a very painful death planned for him at some time in the near or far future, but no one else was privy to that information. Except, perhaps, Peter Pettigrew, another character with a story so far-fetched it made little sense, someone that to this day was considered no more substantial than a fairy tale in some circles.

Of course, Lucius had seen him, had told Draco his story. How he was one of the lucky faithful, how he was a stupid coward, how he was lower, even, than Mudbloods and Muggles and half-bloods but had gained You-Know-Who's favor for being a sniveling coward. Lucius put a lot of stock into loyalty, while it may not have seemed that way. He was a bit of a hypocrite in fact, but he had no respect for Pettigrew who didn't know where his loyalties were. Who only lived to serve himself but was lucky enough to make it through life successfully that way.

Draco thought Pettigrew sounded like the most pathetic of humans and felt almost sorry for the friends he betrayed in his weakness.

The trio finally made it out into the cold night and Draco and Potter followed Snape all the way to Hagrid's hut, wading through knee-deep snowdrifts along the way.

The night, Draco noted as they walked, was deceptively peaceful. And it would be Christmas in a few hours as well . . . too bad he couldn't enjoy the moon hanging near full in the sky or the fact that the holidays would be at their zenith in a matter of hours. Instead he was doing decidedly un-Draco things like saving Potters and he was unearthing secrets that other Death Eaters would torture him for, like the fact that Snape was the renowned spy.

If he made it out of this particular situation alive, he realized bleakly, he was so, so fucked.

"Hagrid's not here," Harry said softly as they entered the half-blood's home through the backdoor.

"He's up at the castle," Snape said shortly, rummaging through his pockets and pulling out several vials and a regal looking phoenix made of glass and small enough to fit in his palm comfortably.

"What's going on up there?" Draco asked, staring as the phoenix stretched a wing and trilled a mute song.

"You'll be briefed on that later."

He looked away from the figurine and frowned at the taller man.

"But . . . is everyone okay?"

Snape was silent and it was enough to cause both him and Potter to panic.

"Who's hurt?"

" Is anyone dead?"

"Calm down. Yes, there are some injured students, Miss Granger and Miss Parkinson among them, but there have been no casualties up to this point."

Both boys blanched and Snape took their silence as an opportunity to explain a bit of the situation to them.

"I need you two to listen to me, are you listening?"

They nodded, Draco's head feeling as if it weighed ten pounds more than usual.

"I'm going to cast a charm on you both that will make you untraceable and give you each a potion. Draco, you will be bound to myself. Potter, you'll be bound to Remus Lupin. You are going to take this phoenix, Potter, you will need to tap it with your wand and say 'Fawkes'. That will activate the portkey and you will both be transported to Remus Lupin's home. It's quite a ways from here and unplottable which makes it ideal. You will both _stay there_ until either myself or Lupin come to fetch you. If we don't seem ourselves, if anything seems strange at all, you have our express permission to restrain us with whatever means necessary and get the hell away from there. If that happens, Potter, your best bet is to head to Number 12 Grimmauld place. There's a vehicle in Lupin's garage that'll know the way."

They both stared at him as he finished, Draco not quite sure this was real. God, it seemed so much like a surreal dream. One of those strangely realistic dreams he had too often now, the kind that blanketed him in a strange reality that was so much better than the one he would wake up to. But then, this wasn't much better than his reality had been just three hours ago, so he supposed it was real enough.

"Any questions?"

Draco and Potter shared a look before shaking their heads. Snape nodded and then gestured to the vials.

"Those potions will bind you to us," he said. "That way we'll be alerted to any danger you may find yourselves in. Though, both Lupin and I are counting you two to _not_ do anything stupid that will endanger your lives."

They just took the potions that he indicated were theirs and tossed them back quickly. They were nearly tasteless, though there was a faint trace of sugar that was decidedly too sweet and stuck to the back of Draco's throat as he swallowed. He felt a strange tug in the general vicinity of his stomach and from the look on Potter's face, he felt it as well. But it faded rather quickly for Draco and his professor nodded, satisfied and proceeded to take out his wand. He did some rather complicated swishes and flicks and muttered a lot so quietly Draco couldn't make out his words. He felt the older man's magic blanket him warmly and then that sensation faded as well.

"Now, hurry and portkey out of here. I've got to get back to the castle."

He headed toward the door of the cottage and opened the door, prepared to step out into the snow. He stopped at the last moment and turned.

"Don't worry about Hermione and Pansy," he said gruffly. "We're taking care of them."

Which was his roundabout way of saying that he understood how distraught they were feeling and then he was gone in a flurry of robes and the door swung shut behind him. The only evidence that it had ever been open was a soft, belated chill that made them both shiver. Draco turned to the table the phoenix had been set on and held out his hand. The figurine hopped into his hand and Harry was suddenly beside him, pulling his wand out from his back pocket, face set in lines more calm and collected than he really was. The shaking finger he laid on the top of the glass bird's head told Draco that he was scared or angry or anything but calm.

"You," Draco said softly, with a quick glance at Potter's face. "Are going to have a lot of explaining to do after this."

The other boy smiled and then tapped the phoenix with his wand and muttered "Fawkes," in a low tone. A split second later, Draco felt a familiar and unwelcome tug behind his bellybutton.


	5. Chapter Five

These Things

By: Lady DeathAngel

Disclaimer: Not mine, not profiting, 'nuff said.

Warnings: language

A/N: Yes, so, it lives! Thanks to BabeGia103 for leaving me the review that got me off my ass and made me finish this chapter. Please note that this story will be updated _sporadically_ meaning, not very much. I haven't completely lost interest in the story, just lost sight of the plot. So while I'm working it out, please check back for updates and check my livejournal account for details on what may be holding me up. Thanks so much to anyone who's still reading this and as always, please read, enjoy, and review!

By the time Draco got around to admitting to himself that he was gay, he already knew that nothing had really changed. He would still get married to whoever his parents approved of, have an heir or two, keep the Malfoy line going strong, and become a big, fat, fucking success. Just like his father. No amount of sexual attraction to the same sex (and lack thereof of the opposite) would ever change that. He'd known this nearly all his life. He was a pure-blood, he had duties, end of story.

Of course, he also didn't expect to fall in love with anyone before embarking on his life as a gay man married to some prissy, French, fifth cousin. He'd been at Hogwarts long enough to know he liked other boys sexually; he did not, however, fancy any of them. He'd been around them all too long. They were all either really stupid, really pompous, or a horrendous mix of both. Not even quiet Blaise Zabini did more for Draco than get his heart beating a bit faster. He figured that he would make it through the next two years repressed and horny, but gleefully unattached and definitely _not_ in love.

Not to mention the fact that he had bigger things to deal with than getting laid or coming out to anyone. He didn't harbor any worries that he'd fall in love with anyone. And then, of course, the minute he was convinced it wouldn't happen, it did. He didn't even realize it until he was foolishly risking his neck to save the prat, flying in the face of his father and his family's friends and the Dark Lord himself, to make sure that Harry bloody Potter stayed alive to see Christmas.

And it was still a hard pill to swallow because how had he fallen in love with Potter of all people? He was skinny and annoying, stupid and rash, practically blind and abnormally short, not to mention the hero of the world at large and Dumbledore's pet monkey and a dozen other things that made him sick to his stomach with dislike. He was also surprisingly quiet, and he was being rather nice at the moment, giving Draco the grand tour of Remus Lupin's quaint (and surprisingly lavishly furnished) house.

"That's Remus' room," Potter said as they walked through the upper-floor hallway. "Bathroom, closet, and my room."

"You live here?" Draco asked, shocked.

Potter nodded.

"Yeah. I mean, it was my first year here, this summer. Sirius had planned on smuggling me out here, but then he got stuck at Grimmauld Place and after that . . ." He trailed off and was seeing something that was obviously not happening at that moment.

Draco thought back to what he'd heard about Sirius Black. After the events of his fourth year, his father had revealed that Peter Pettigrew was, indeed, alive and that Black was innocent.

"It almost would have been better if he'd gotten acquitted," he'd said. "At least then Potter probably wouldn't be living with his Muggle relatives and he'd be easier prey."

Which, at the time, had made no sense to Draco. Who wouldn't want to take on Muggles over a fully grown, and possibly mad, Wizard? He hadn't heard much more about him. His mother had mentioned, once, that Sirius was a cousin.

"He used to be beautiful," she'd said when he was thirteen, staring down at the face on the cover of the Prophet. "Younger than me, though. About the same age as Bella, I think."

"He was blasted off the tapestry, though, right?"

His mother had nodded and Draco hadn't thought much more about that. He was obviously a blood-traitor and, therefore, not worth his attention. Now he wished that he knew more. Other than those odd facts, and the knowledge that Sirius Black had been Potter's legal guardian and godfather before being accused of blasting Pettigrew and those Muggles to pieces, he didn't know much of anything. Well, there had been that small bit in the Prophet over the summer. Just a tiny thing of an article stating that the manhunt for Sirius Black had been called off. According to some anonymous source, the man had died and was no longer a threat to the Wizarding world.

"Anyway," Potter said, snapping out of his stupor. "Remus decided that he couldn't stand it in the old house anymore and moved in here. Sirius helped decorate, apparently. A lot of the landscape pieces were his."

"Who do they belong to now?" Draco asked, curious against his better judgment.

"All mine," the dark-haired boy said sadly. "He left all of his belongings to me and Remus. Though, he might've left one or two things to Tonks since she's his cousin and all."

He shrugged and opened the door to his room. It was spacious, definitely more so than Draco had first assumed it would be, and freakishly clean. At least, for a teenage boy's living space. Then again, Potter hadn't been in the house since the summer so that made sense. The other boy didn't waste any time in flopping across his bed and telling Draco to make himself at home, something that he didn't think would be possible. But he made a valiant effort, sitting gingerly on a large chair against the wall across from the bed and then curling into it when he realized how comfortable it was.

It was really quiet, Potter barely breathing, and Draco took the chance to look around the room. The walls were practically bare, colored a deep blue-gray that blended into the dark, plush carpeting. The bed took up a fair amount of space and faced the window off to the blonde's left. There was a closet directly across from the door, and a nightstand and small desk and chair were the only other pieces of furniture in the room. The room itself was saved from being utterly boring by the insane number of pictures that were on the nightstand and desk, and mounted on the otherwise plain walls.

He didn't recognize anyone, but he could guess who they all were by small resemblances. Well, the resemblance between Potter and his father wasn't small at all. James Potter looked almost exactly like his son, only with deliberate mistakes, little things that told them apart. His mother was quite pretty and nearly always smiling, save a few pictures in which she was scowling at another pair of young men. One had dark hair that behaved perfectly (the sort of thing Draco's only ever seemed to do when aided by a _lot_ of special made potions), and one with shaggy sandy-brown hair. The latter looked a lot like Professor Lupin, actually, so Draco reasoned that he was and that the other boy was probably Sirius Black. There were a few other people in pictures with them, but most of the photos were of those four.

"So . . ." Draco murmured when the silence had become cloying and the pictures hard to look at.

"Did you know?" Potter demanded before Draco could finish his thought (not that he actually had a thought to finish. Even he didn't know what he was going to say).

"What?"

Potter turned toward him and rolled his eyes.

"Did. You. Know? You've got to admit, it's a bit convenient that you just _happened_ to be in the dungeons when the Death Eaters and Voldemort were trying to kill me."

Draco didn't know how to answer that question. Because he had known, sort of. He'd gotten that cryptic letter and so he'd had an inklin, but no concrete information and he _certainly_ hadn't expected an attack at Hogwarts. Really, his being in the dungeons was all by chance anyway. He'd heard a rumor that two fifth years were forgoing dinner and fucking each other instead, and as a Prefect he couldn't just let it happen. Not to mention he'd been bored and the rest of the Slytherins were looking rather sullen and dampening his holiday cheer so much that it was drenched and dripping all over the place.

Draco had gone to the dungeons, found the offending couple in an empty room, and ushered them outside and into the middle of what was the most dangerous situation he'd ever found himself in. He'd barely had time to register that You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters were so close before an errant spell hit the ceiling and caved the whole hallway in. Draco chose a side and leapt, and when the dust settled, found himself staring at Harry Potter's pale, unmoving body.

It was a defining moment. Draco heard, vaguely, shouts and curses being thrown on the other side of the rubble, but mostly he felt sick and wondered at it as he crawled toward Potter and shook him frantically. At that time he was still toying with the idea of doing nothing, of helping his father (because he'd heard his father's voice shouting something minutes before) and You-Know-Who and making them proud. And then Potter had inhaled sharply and moaned and coughed and the intense sensation of relief that pooled in Draco's stomach was all it took to have him throw everything he'd ever known away.

"My father wrote me," he finally said, leaning back in the chair. "He didn't say much. Just to stay away from you and keep my guard up."

"So why were you in the dungeons, then?"

Draco lifted an eyebrow.

"Official Prefect's business."

Potter snorted and rubbed his eyes wearily.

"God, this is so weird. I never would've expected this."

"That makes two of us," Draco assured him.

"Right. Well, we both look like shit and there are two bathrooms in perfectly wonderful working condition. I'm taking a shower and I suggest you do too."

Draco thought that was a fabulous idea because he did his best thinking in the shower, and he had a lot to think about. Potter stood up and rummaged through his closet.

"You're about Sirius' size I think. I kept all his Muggle clothes. Never thought anyone would need them, though."

He straightened and Draco stood to accept the pile of folded clothing.

"I'll use Remus' bathroom," Potter told him, grabbing his own change of clothes and walking out of the room.

"You can use mine. You remember where it is?"

Draco nodded and followed Potter into the hallway. The bathroom was right next to the dark-haired boy's bedroom and the blonde entered, not quite sure what he'd see. It was clean, he noticed, and roomy. The shower was large, as was the mirror, the sink, and the sink's counter. The color scheme was the same blue as Potter's bedroom, and the floor was decorated with plush mats. Draco stripped his dirty clothing off and curled his lip at it before turning the taps. Once the water was suitably hot, he stepped in and started scrubbing.

It had been a long day, the culmination of a few long months, and he didn't know what to think or feel. Scared, probably. After all, he was as good as dead now. But that wouldn't do anyone any good. He was a bit angry because of all places, Voldemort and personally infiltrated _Hogwarts_ and now Pansy was injured and who knew what else was going on. Just more proof hat despite making stupid decisions, his father was right about one thing: Dumbledore was _not_ fit to be running the school. He was still reeling about the revelation of Snape (a tale he'd be dragging out of Potter in no time) and there was the entire situation about his feelings. This being in love (if that's what it even was. He was being hasty in describing the acute terror at the thought of Potter dead and the colossal relief at knowing he wasn't as 'love'. Perhaps it was just empathy, pure and simple) business was odd and would take a lot of consideration.

And Draco did consider it. It felt like one of the longest showers of his life, and when he emerged he was not only clean, but he'd come to a conclusion: he had never been more confused in his life.


End file.
